It is my fault.

I get out immediately.

IV

I walk down the same street.

There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.

I walk around it.

V

I walk down another street.

Portia Nelson

The Road Out of Town

When will I take you, I ask –

the road out?

Will it be tomorrow? Will it?

Oh, let it be tomorrow –

sweet as a peach that road

and you, juicy with laughter.

Rich that road, as rich as rich

with peacock beginnings

and myself with the shackles and the blindfold gone

and this other road – forgotten.

At first we will be dizzy with the joy of it

but that won’t matter – no –

just the feel of the road under our feet

shaking the dust of ages,

the cruel hands of time from ourselves.

Just the being gone will be enough.

No barriers. No signposts.

Just the sun shining on new black tar.

The smell of it under our feet.

And my little famine bones, mending again.

With each bold step as further out of town

I with my singing heart and my whistling soul am led.

And you will look around – oh yes

and only know that I am gone.

You will see the space I have left and say:

‘Why yes – there was somewhere else she had to be,

a path she always had to tread.’

And you will hear me singing still

as all sing when first they take that single step

on the Road out of Town.

Helen Burke

Cocoon

raincoat zipped to my chin

for the bike ride

to work

hair bunned at the back

to fit in the hood

helmet clipped – tight

i am waterproof

now pace reaches peak

the pedals attacked

winter tries hard

but the sweat coats my back

until two minutes left

i let myself go

cycling slowed

to unzip my coat

jacket front free

helmet clipped from beneath

hood stripped from my forehead

hairband released

hair ruffled with hands

to cool in the wind

body to elements

airing my skin

at that moment

i open

and peel myself free

i feel as close

to a new butterfly

as i’ll ever be

Hollie McNish

Wolves

We are staring at the moon

and I think for a second we become

wolves again.

Screaming at the stars,

growling at the idea

that this night might end

and we will forget this moment,

as in turn we will be forgotten.

Our wild souls captured.

We become wolves,

and for once we are running

for something.

Instead of running from it.

Ruth Awolola

Ode

To depict a (bicycle), you must first come to love (it).

Alexander Blok

I swear by every rule in the bicycle

owner’s manual

that I love you, I, who have repeatedly,

painstakingly,

with accompanying declaration of despair,

tried to repair

you, to patch things up,

to maintain a workable relationship.

I have spent sleepless nights

in pondering your parts – those private

and those that all who walk the street